A Reign of Terror
by Juliana Brandagamba
Summary: Series of oneshots inspired by the start of Uther's reign, and the Great Purge.
1. Chapter 1

The King of Wessex was a magician. Everyone knew that; most accepted it. He wasn't a very good magician. He didn't do magic very often, for fear it would go wrong, and embarrass him in public. The last time that had happened, all the artists in the kingdom had taken great pleasure in reproducing the incident, and people still joked that his face had retained the colour of a beetroot. Anyway, the King of Wessex was a magician, and this was known far and wide.

He could usually be found in his study, a book of magic to one side of him, and important court documents to the other. Sometimes he wrote spells on the court documents. Nobody minded (much). On this particular day he was writing the mandate for the execution of a traitor, while simultaneously learning how to bring inanimate objects to life. He thought it might balance it out a bit.

He was interrupted by the appearance of his servant, a dull young man who was loyal to him beyond words, who announced the arrival of a message, and presented him with a scroll.

The King of Wessex read through the missive, and his brow furrowed violently. He glanced at his servant. The boy never showed much interest in anything, but there was a vaguely questioning look in his eyes at present. The message was important. The king decided that his servant should know what it concerned.

'Uther Pendragon is the new king of Camelot.'

'Very good, sire.'

'Very good? Do you not realise –' The King caught his tongue. 'I don't like him.'

'Very good, sire.'

'Is that all you can say?'

'No, sire.'

'Hum. Well, I haven't seen Uther for some years now, but I remember him, and I've heard things about him. He doesn't like people like me.'

'Sire?'

'Magicians. Sorcerers. Anyone using the ancient arts.'

'I did not realise that, sire.'

'Few do.'

'Has he not consulted with magicians before now, sire?'

The King of Wessex leaned back in his seat, looking moderately satisfied despite everything. 'He pretends to be on their side. Everyone sees that side of him. Often consulting with magicians. Friendly with Nimueh. And if this letter's anything to go by, he's appointed magicians to important court positions. Gaius, for example. Good man, that Gaius.' He drew a deep breath. ' _But_. It's all an act. He's suspicious of us. I can see that. He is willing to exploit magic, but he doesn't trust it. Thinks that because we're capable of dark magic, we all use it, in secret.'

'You speculate, sire, surely.'

'Hum? Speculate?' The King frowned. 'Perhaps I do. But I'm right, I know I'm right. You'll see. You'll see.'


	2. Chapter 2

The druids were a curious bunch of people. It was often assumed that they were all similar beings, but they were by no means so: just as the cities were like microcosms representing the entire human race, so were the druids diverse and distinct. But one thing united them, and that was the concept of peace.

There were various tribes of them scattered about the kingdoms, and their leaders maintained an unwritten agreement that they would remain friendly to each other when they met, and keep out of the way when they didn't. Any disagreements between the leaders, or members of the groups, were left to fizzle out. Furthermore the druids had a policy of no outward violence: a fact that made them rather well-respected in the "normal" world, and so few people ever bothered them, despite their curiosities or, sometimes, quarrels.

The appointment of King Uther, said some, was going to change all that.

On the outskirts of Camelot, a sprawling camp wound its way through the forest, in one part crossing the border. They called it a temporary camp, but they had been there more than a year now, and hadn't really thought about moving. It housed perhaps a hundred druids: one of the larger groups.

Among the eldest of the druids was a man called Cuthbert. When the news of Uther's ascension reached them, he became unusually vocal, telling everyone who would listen that he didn't think it boded well.

'He doesn't like druids,' he said stubbornly, over and over.

To which the reply would ever be: 'How can you know that?'

'I just _know_ it,' he would always say.

At length a few of them were so irritated by these vague comments that they pressed him, asking him whether he had a genuine, magical prescience about the matter, or if he just didn't like Uther Pendragon. Among them was young Aglain. Nobody could really remember why Aglain was part of their tribe. He was dark-skinned and looked exotic, and he wasn't related to any of them, nor was he an apprentice. But he was a good man, an extraordinary magician, and a kind-hearted and thoughtful character, and he was prone to appeasing those with rather un-peaceful thoughts.

'Have you met Uther Pendragon?' Aglain asked.

Cuthbert fell silent, and then said: 'A long time ago... a long time ago, I visited the city of Camelot.'

'Have you met him?'

'...No. But I have overheard him.'

'What have you overheard?'

'It was a long time ago now...' Aglain glared, so Cuthbert coughed and added: 'I honestly can't quite recall. I just know that it was something to do with his prejudices towards magic-users.'

'A public statement or private discourse?'

'Private, I imagine.'

'Precisely how long ago?'

'Ooh, a good five, ten years.'

Aglain sighed. 'Much as I want to take your comment seriously, dear Cuthbert, it is but a fragment of information, and five years is a long time. He could have changed his mind. He might not even have said such things to start with.'

'I tell you he did,' persisted Cuthbert. 'You'll see. He hates druids. Hates people who use magic.'

'I say we give him a chance,' said Aglain loudly, and retreated to his own tent.

* * *

It is hard to know what those who elected to give Uther Pendragon a chance were thinking when the soldiers attacked. The golden lion of Camelot was the last thing many saw. A few particularly unlucky ones caught a glimpse of the face of their king as he joined the melée. Only Aglain, fleeing for his life over rocks and tree roots, remembered Cuthbert's words.

That is to say, nobody remembered Cuthbert's words until they found him later, and saw a strangely satisfied smile on the dead man's lips.


	3. Chapter 3

It is very easy to give orders from one's study.

King Uther lived a life of luxury, though it would pain him to admit it: and it could even be described as sheltered, given that he very rarely left the castle, and even more rarely ventured out to investigate the problems in his kingdom.

Not that he did not pay them much heed. Of course he was attentive to problems: he would receive reports every day, and send out reports on what action was to be taken. Every week he held council with his advisors and closest allies, discussing important state issues, and always listening to and often taking advice from these excellent men. If a villager or other citizen of the kingdom requested an audience, he made sure he was there to hear their pleas: or, if he could not, that one of his men heard them out.

King Uther was therefore praised by a good many, because he was so attentive, because he paid attention even to the most minor of peasants, because he kept up an appearance of working extremely hard for his kingdom. Yes, he worked. He talked and wrote more than anyone else in the castle. But it is easy work, if you can get it, and deep down he realised that. Perhaps he felt guilty, but it did not much affect him.

It is very easy to give orders from one's study. That was why he chose the method of having everyone else do the things that he organised and decided upon. His was the job of commander; the others had to do his work. They never complained, of course. He was their King. He ruled, many said (quietly), with an iron fist.

On this particular day, a piece of paper was thrust onto his desk; he glanced down it, smiled a little humourlessly, and plucked his pen from his inkwell. It glided across the page, drawing out his signature; and once the ink had dried, he passed the piece of paper back to the knight who had handed it to him.

He was not the one wielding the axe. He was not the innocent man with his head on a block. He did not even have to view the execution. Signing a death warrant was as easy for him as signing a demand for a decrease in taxes.

It is very easy to give orders from one's study. Many often wished that King Uther would realise that.


	4. Chapter 4

The identity of the monarch in the next kingdom didn't usually bother the inhabitants of Ealdor. Truth be told, probably only half of them could name even their own king. News of far-off events scarcely ever reached them. Few people ever ventured out that far, and few villagers strayed more than a few miles from the village.

It surprised people later, then, that the people of Ealdor knew a good deal about Uther Pendragon and his deeds, more even than some of Camelot's denizens.

When asked, the villagers just shrugged and said they had heard it from "somewhere". But the images in their mind were clear, images of an event that had shaken the village. A scruffy but noble-looking man clattering down the dirt road to the first clump of farmsteads, running full into the village and only stopping when he was huddled, hidden, behind old Farmer Thomas's barn. Dear Hunith watching this scene from her window, and dashing outside, the first to find out what was going on. Hunith and Balinor – that was his name, the exotic-sounding Balinor – falling in love but not acknowledging it for so very long. Conversations with this Balinor: tales of Camelot, of King Uther Pendragon. The soldiers coming – he had had to flee...

Yes, the citizens of Ealdor knew about King Uther. None more so, however, than Hunith. Which is why, hardly a year later, when the child had begun to show signs of a strange ability, she had known that she must hide it as best she could, for fear of his life and hers.


End file.
